Sentimentality
by The Necessity of Darkness
Summary: Or, 5 times Sherlock flinched at John, and 1 time he didn't.
1. Too Blue

**A/N: I hope you enjoy this short story. It will be separated into 6 separate chapters.**

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John let his gaze stray to the little blonde boy with the too blue irises by the doorway. Tears dribbled down his cheeks, dripping off his chin. His balled hands remained by his sides, small sniffles loud against the thin walls.

The doctor's eyes then fell to the body sprawled on the cold floor. He frowned. A veil was slung over the corpse, black trash bag beneath it as to not let the blood soak through the eggshell white.

He shifted his sad eyes to Sherlock, a gangly ball of energy and a flurry of coat as his curly hair bounced against his head.

"This is horrible," the boy mumbled, reaching up to his dad's dangling hand. The father looked at him with the same shade eyes as his son, apologetic and guilty as he gripped his small hand roughly.

"I know, bud, I know."

Sherlock looked at them with something akin to understanding. He crouched beside the boy, the father clinging to the child's hand even tighter.

"You and your father should get home," the detective murmured. The dad brushed a stray lock of hair off his son's forehead, gently squeezing his shoulder with his free hand.

He lifted up again, the parent nodding as he tugged gently at the child's arm.

"Come on, bud. Let's let the detectives work for now, alright?" The boy didn't move for a moment, seemingly rooted to the ground before he almost too quickly darted for the door.

Sherlock watched them leave, and John watched Sherlock watch them. The doctor came up behind him, furrowed brows framing his worried eyes.

He rested a warm palm against his friend's shoulder. He felt the smallest wince rattle through his fingers, extending up his arm as Sherlock's calculating eyes turned to him.

"You alright?" the soldier said after a bit, Sherlock's eyes still steady on his.

The detective firmly pushed John's arm away, shrugging out of the doctor's grasp as he responded,"Fine." Curt, cold cut, quick.

Then, Sherlock was heading out of the door to find Lestrade, billowing coat only settling around him once he stopped inside the doorway. He turned back.

"Coming, John?"

The doctor glanced back down to the corpse of the mother, remembering her son's too blue eyes and the way they sheened with his tears in the light. They oddly reminded him of Sherlock, and now the resemblance wouldn't leave him.

"Yeah, yeah..."

"Coming."

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 **A/N: Any feedback is appreciated.**


	2. It's All Fine

"I'm not gay."

It didn't seem particularly indecent a thing to say, to John at least. After such a long time, the phrase had become more automatic than meaningful.

But Sherlock- calculating, unaffected, impervious Sherlock- had flinched away from the noise as if it were a physical brand on his skin. And that, the doctor thought, must have meant something, because previously him saying that same phrase had done nothing to affect the detective's façade. Somehow, this time was different.

Sherlock's eyes met the bag of groceries, boring through the plastic with fervor as the presumptuous woman startled and gave them their change, looking at John oddly. As soon as they exited the Tesco's, John peered at him with soft eyes. He clutched the detective's arm, pressing him into an alley wall firmly, but not harshly. In a rather unSherlock-like fashion, the boffin didn't say a word about the ordeal, didn't protest to his personal space being invaded, didn't scowl at his blogger through the dim light of the one lamp post in the alleyway. For once, John just stopped, and looked, and _saw_ him: the whole of him, illuminated by the presently ill-colored light.

His hollowed eyes were defeated, a thousand sorrows which lay behind his mask, finally visible in the pallor of his face and wrinkles around his eyes and mouth, marring his otherwise young appearance. And all of this, John realized, this was all because of _him_. His words. His denial and defense, even when he had said, _it's all fine_.

Because he was the catalyst of this, John pulled away after just another moment of searching. Sherlock barely moved after his offending hands were gone, didn't even brush himself off. His eyes didn't shift to try to cover anything; John suspected it was because Sherlock already knew that he had seen the emotions there, and found it pointless to waste his energy on keeping it locked up now.

"It offends you," the once-soldier broke the quiet. It was more of a statement than a question, but he still wasn't 100% sure. Sherlock cocked his head.

"Offend is not the word I would have chosen," the boffin said dejectedly, pointedly, as if he had thought long and hard about the choice before then, as if he were critiquing and cajoling for the sole purpose of protecting himself. It wasn't much of an answer, but John interpreted its meaning just fine.

He placed his hand back on Sherlock's arm, gentler this time, as if to communicate that he could leave John's grip if he felt uncomfortable. "You know I meant it, right? That it's all fine?" Sherlock nodded his head, lacking even a mite of hesitance as he did so, which made John feel just an ounce respected and warm in his belly.

His small hand dropped from the seam of his friend's shirt where he had been stroking. "I can stop doing it, if you like. Just know that it's never been anything personal against you. It's not a jab at you, or…whatever you are, or anyone's sexuality, and I need to make sure that you know that now because I apparently have not been clear and been perceived as a prick."

Sherlock smiled for the first time all night, some mirth changing his eyes and youth returning to his face. "Well, you appear less of a prick beside me," he conceded, slipping out of John's grasp. That, John knew, meant he was forgiven. "And…" The detective suddenly appeared uncomfortable, but soft and uncertain. "What you offered…that's- it would be appreciated…"

John laughed, loud and full of heart, throat clogged with acid affection for this whirlwind of a man who was looking at him brightly, as had become normal, as was his wont to make the old doctor feel like the Sun. "You can count on me," he breathed contentedly in reply.

Sherlock observed him for a moment, sizing him up. He blinked seriously.

"I always do."


End file.
